


Psst...

by pagan



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: EWE, F/M, Humor, Post-Hogwarts, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-15
Updated: 2012-10-15
Packaged: 2017-11-16 08:57:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/537717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pagan/pseuds/pagan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione's portrait makes a promise on her behalf to one sexy Slytherin that leaves her all hot and bothered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Psst...

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Hermione Pick a Pairing from the Hat Challenge on GE. I got this lovely prompt from Mistress Malfoy: Her portrait had always been annoyingly opinionated, from the way she wore her hair, to the men she dallied with - but now she'd interfered once too many times and Hermione was duty bound to fulfil her obligation.

"Psst, you."

The young boy looked enquiringly around and spotted the woman in the portrait on the wall of his professor's study waggling the fingers of her right hand in his direction. He turned around but no one else was in the room save for him.

The woman in the portrait beckoned him closer, the look on her face close to impatient. "Psst. Yes, you."

Unsure and just a little bit afraid, the young boy pointed to himself as if to say, _You mean me?_

The woman in the portrait rolled her eyes. "Yes, you over there," she said in ringing tones as she nodded imperiously. "Come here."

The boy shuffled forward almost reluctantly towards the portrait as he glanced fearfully at the door that led to a small room off the professor's study - he presumed it to be his professor's own private library - where the professor herself had walked into just moments before.

Unlike his professor's current look - hair pulled up into a somewhat messy bun and work robes that covered her from neck to toe - the woman in the portrait was painted when the professor was a few years younger, with her hair down in riotous curls and her creamy pale shoulders laid bare by an off-shoulder dark green gown.

The boy gulped loudly. "Professor?" he asked. "You look, er, different." He blushed. The professor's creamy cleavage was impressively showcased by the very low décolletage of her gown. He was seeing so much _more_ of his professor than he really wanted to. He stared wonderingly at the portrait-being within the frame.  It - _she_ \- seemed so unlike the original Hermione Granger that the boy wandered even closer to get a better look.

The woman - the boy could not find it in him to call her Professor Granger after such a blatant display of flesh - in the portrait preened and fluttered her eyelashes outrageously at him.

He blinked and took a half-step back. Yes, it definitely was Professor Granger, though very different from her usual self. He gulped again.

"Well, aren't you a good looking young man," she purred.

The young boy blushed.

"Tell me, what _are_ you doing in here?" she asked.

The boy looked down. "Um, Professor Granger is looking for a book for me to read during detention."

"Detention?" She laughed. "Why, what in Merlin's name did you do wrong?"

The boy stubbed the toe of his shoe on the stone floor and mumbled, "I, er, uh, ah, I mixed dried frog legs with wolfberries instead of wolfsbane when brewing the Wolfsbane Potion this morning."

The woman in the portrait raised her eyebrows at that and gave him a look identical to the one Professor Granger had given him earlier today.

"I see," she said. "Did you intend to provide your classmates with frog leg soup instead?"

The boy cringed as the woman in the portrait echoed the words - though in a less scathing tone - Professor Granger had said this morning before informing him to see her later for detention. It was, as the professor had said, evidence of his not paying attention to her instructions, and she was certain that by the time detention was over, he would be able to set out his understanding of the uses of wolfsbane in potions on parchment. "Twelve inches," Professor Granger had instructed, "so you will be sure never to make the same mistake again. I will provide you with the appropriate reference texts."

The boy sighed. Professor Granger had numerous texts she liked to refer to in addition to the ones required in the curriculum; from the time she had walked into her private library, he knew he was doomed to spend all of his free time before dinner and after it, slogging through a mountain of books.

"What is your name, boy?" the woman in the portrait asked suddenly.

"My - my name?" he stammered.

"Yes."

"It's Adrian, Profess - er, ma'am. Adrian Hughes."  
The woman in the portrait pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Adrian, Adrian. Where have I heard her mention that name recently?"  Her eyes widened and suddenly, the portrait-being asked in urgent tones, "Do me a favour will you, Adrian? I need you to take me down and put me in front of the fireplace. I need to make a Floo call."

Adrian looked shocked. "But - but, this is the professor's private Floo. I can't -"

She waved off his protests. "Please, you've already been given detention. What more could she do to you?"

The boy looked scared. "Well..." he hedged, trying to slowly back away from the portrait.

"Come on, young Adrian. Where's that Gryffindor courage, eh?" the woman in the portrait asked.

"I'm in Hufflepuff," Adrian squeaked in reply, brandishing his yellow tie.

The woman rolled her eyes. "It doesn't matter. Just be a dear and take me down, won't you?"

"But - but -" young Adrian protested.

She sighed. "Trust me on this. She'll be in there for quite some time."

"How do you know?" the boy asked suspiciously.

The portrait of his Potions' professor smirked. "That book's she's looking for? She hasn't taken it out since five years ago when another student made the same mistake as you."

"Oh."

" _Oh_ indeed, young man. Now, take me down - that's it." She beamed her approval at Adrian as he lifted her frame off the wall. "You're so strong," she said admiringly, making him blush even harder.  "That's it - and set me right - yes, right here. Grab some Floo powder and throw it in for me, there's a dear."

Young Adrian did as he was bid and when the flames went _Whoosh!_ and turned green, the portrait of Hermione Granger called out "Adrian Pucey's office" in clear, ringing tones.

*

Hermione Granger was loath to use _Accio_ to find that particular text she wanted to lend her student. The book was rather old, and its leather bindings somewhat loose; she was worried that using magic to summon it may worsen its already delicate condition. Come to think of it, she thought tiredly, maybe she shouldn't let Adrian Hughes handle the book. Merlin knows the boy was a scatterbrain and rather clumsy to boot. Her precious tome may not survive his handling during detention.

Hermione sighed and decided to let Adrian write out his paper just by relying on the other three books she had told him to use a reference. Both were easily available from the school library.

As she was walking out, she heard an unmistakably familiar giggle. She stopped and groaned; her portrait was no doubt flirting with young Mister Hughes. Though not too well-endowed intellectually and rather skinny to boot, the young boy did in fact possess a pleasant countenance. Plus, he was male. All the necessary requirements for her portrait to flirt outrageously were already met, Hermione thought wryly. She pitied the poor boy; he would not stand a chance against that amorous hussy that was her portrait.

Not for the first time did she regret allowing Luna Lovegood to paint her, especially during Beltane. It may have been two years ago, but she still recalled how Luna had insisted Hermione be her first attempt at portrait painting. Because of the upcoming celebrations, she had even insisted on painting Hermione in a green dress with a crown of flowers; Hermione had flat out refused. After much persuasion, Hermione had squeezed herself into a velvety green gown that showed too much bosom in her opinion. Luna had disagreed, although frankly, seeing that those were _her_ bosoms on display and not Luna's, Hermione always felt hers should be the only opinion that mattered. She had however, drawn the line at putting flowers in her hair.

It must have been the combination of the elf wine Luna had pressed upon her - "It's a very good wine; it'll help you relax and keep away the Nargles away while I paint you," Luna had said in that whimsical way of hers - and the general air that was Beltane, for after a while, Hermione had indeed relaxed and even felt comfortable in clothes that barely covered her nipples. Despite its propensity for a major wardrobe malfunction should the wearer be careless and leaned too far forward whilst in it, that dress had made her feel feminine, confident in herself and in her sexuality.

She had luxuriated in the feel of the soft velvet heavy against her skin, the silk lining rubbing against her nipples at the slightest movement. She had felt sexy in it.

Hermione knew that a portrait-being's personality reflected the circumstances in which one was painted, and how well the portrait painter knew the person they were painting. As far as Hermione could tell from her research, the portrait-being's personality came from the painter's depiction of it.

Her sexuality and confidence must have shone through the day Luna had painted her because the end result - now hanging in her private study - was an annoyingly opinionated version of her; as different from her as day was from night. Her portrait liked to wear her hair loose and flowing as opposed to the - messy, though more than adequate as befits her role as a teacher - bun Hermione usually employed. Her portrait was not above using her feminine wiles to get what she wanted and enjoyed flirting with any male she happened to encounter: from Argus Filch, who once had cause to speak to Hermione in her study regarding some of her students, to men from various other portraits and paintings within Hogwarts.

These were all acts that Hermione herself would never even contemplate.  Hermione firmly believed in working hard for what she wanted, and not in taking the easy way out.

As she fully opened the door that led to the main room of her study, she heard her portrait say, "Why yes, of course," before letting out a tinkling laugh unlike anything Hermione herself had ever produced.

A kernel of unease unfurled in the pit of her stomach as she hurried out.

 _Oh, Merlin, what has_ she _done now?_

Hermione rushed into the room to see the timid-looking Mister Hughes struggling to hold on to her portrait as a masculine voice floated out of her fireplace. "I would have your word," the voice said smoothly.

_No. Oh, no. She wouldn't._

Before Hermione could even form the words _No, stop!_ out loud, she heard the portrait-being purr, "You have the word of Hermione Jean Granger."

The _Nooo!_ was torn from her throat, but not before the masculine voice from the fireplace said smugly, "Done."

  
*

Adrian Pucey ended the unexpected Floo call the moment he heard the real Hermione Granger screech in outrage. In his opinion, discretion had always been the better part of valour, and he did not want to be caught in the fray, so to speak, when Hermione found out what her portrait had promised on her behalf. He would need the time to prepare for when Professor Granger herself appeared in his study, trying to see if she could wriggle her way out of what _her_ portrait had done.

He did feel a twinge of guilt for leaving the young boy - he assumed it was a boy; Hermione's portrait was predictable in that sense - to Hermione' tender mercies. No doubt the poor unfortunate soul, whoever he was, would be stuck with scrubbing dirty cauldrons in the Potions' classroom every evening for the rest of term as punishment.  Ah, well, he thought, better to let them learn young; never get tricked into anything just because a woman flaunted her charms at you.

He grinned wickedly as the image of Hermione Granger's portrait floated across his inner eye in all its vivid glory.

Maybe the boy ought to be forgiven for succumbing to the feminine wiles of the portrait-being; after all, it couldn't be easy to think straight when her - or rather, Hermione Granger's - bounteous charms were so delectably displayed.

People were wont to always dismiss Hermione Granger as a bookish young woman with nary a sexy bone in her body, but Adrian knew better. Well, he knew better _now_ , he corrected himself.

He'd been attracted to Granger slowly over the years as they'd become friends while working in Hogwarts: there was no denying her intelligence, her courage to speak up to try and right wrongs, her warm-hearted nature. He had originally thought her plain: she hardly wore make up and frankly, never wore anything more revealing that her work robes. But as he had gotten to know her, he'd realised that her looks didn't matter. Sure, he sometimes wondered what she looked like underneath her robes, and admittedly, he sometimes caught himself admiring the lovely line of her neck and her creamy, smooth skin, but it was Hermione herself - her character - that had caught his attention and held it. He was attracted to _her_ \- what she really was: bookish, warm-hearted, no-affectations-all-natural Granger - but it was a platonic attraction; two like-minded individuals having discovered each other.

Looks had counted for naught in his attraction; they still didn't matter, actually, except that five months ago, he had caught sight of that portrait of hers. It had been painted a few years back, but the painter had only sent it to Granger earlier this year.

Once he'd caught sight of that portrait - well, suffice it to say, after _that_ he'd been plagued with dreams of Granger lying tangled in his sheets with her hair spread across his pillows, or Granger in his bed wearing nothing but him.

Where they had once spent many companionable hours together over the years, discussing everything - from literature to music, from their students to theoretical applications of magic on Muggle science, from wizarding politics to whether or not Slughorn used a corset under his robes - with nary a sexual thought running through Adrian's head, all he now wanted to do was throw her down on the floor and have his wicked way with her.

The portrait was firm evidence of what Hermione was as well: an extremely sexual woman. And that had lent a new dimension to his attraction to her. It was no longer platonic, not for him, and it had made him want her with an overwhelming urgency.

He sat down in his comfortable leather chair, arranged the essays submitted by the sixth years' on his desk into a neat pile and selected the one at the very top. He picked up his quill, dipped it into the pot of red ink and proceeded to mark the paper, all the while patiently waiting for the knock at the door that was sure to come.

 

* 

"What - what did you do? Tell me!" Hermione gritted her teeth and satisfied herself with glaring daggers at her portrait. What she really wanted to do was to grab hold of the woman in there and shake her, but the frame was heavy and really, she was not a violent person. Though she really did feel like shaking the portrait silly.

 _She_ would be the death of Hermione.

Mister Hughes had already been dismissed from her sight, but not before she informed him in dire tones that he would be spending all his evenings scrubbing dirty cauldrons, cleaning and polishing the Potions' classroom's work tables and labelling bottles until the end of the school year. The boy had blanched and looked about ready to cry when he had finally dragged himself dejectedly from her rooms.All this after replacing the portrait on the wall and taking a vow to never repeat what he had witnessed in Professor Granger's study - but Hermione had not been in the mood to commiserate or feel bad for Mister Hughes, though she did intend to reduce the punishment to this term only.

 _Only after the boy had stewed in his guilt for about, oh, a week or three._ Hermione smiled grimly at that thought, and tapped her foot impatiently. "Well?" she asked her portrait.

The woman in the portrait buffed her nails and blew at it softly. "Nothing."

Hermione resisted the urge to scream. "Don't lie to me." She narrowed her eyes at the portrait. "Tell me, or I swear I'll - I'll -"

Her portrait laughed. "You'll what? Put me somewhere else in the castle? Ooh, I'd like that." She tapped a finger against her lips. "Somewhere near Firenze's classroom would be good. Have you seen his shoulders? Not to mention those rippling chest muscles."

The portrait-being sighed theatrically while Hermione tried not to scream out her frustrations, and continued her musings. "I wouldn't mind if you put me in Professor Pucey's rooms. I'll bet he has a fantastic body; I recall he played regularly for the Slytherin Quidditch team back in his days as a student. Think how he would look, all hot and sweaty after his Arithmancy class. Mmm."

Hermione closed her eyes, stopped the urge to question why anyone would be sweaty after an Arithmancy class, and counted to ten. She opened them in time to see the portrait-being lick her lips lasciviously. "He's hot," the portrait murmured, causing Hermione to almost let slip her rather tenuous hold on her temper before she reined it firmly back in.

Hermione made a strangled sound before choking out the words: "Tell me."

The portrait shrugged. "Oh, fine. Honestly, you'll have a conniption the way you're acting. One would think you're a hundred and five instead of twenty-five."

"Argh!" 

The portrait huffed. "All right; enough with the hysterics." She peered closely at Hermione before a smirk graced her features. "I promised Professor Pucey you'd shag him silly if he took you to the Hogwarts' Governors' Ball next week." The portrait gave her a side-long glance. "You need to get laid, anyway. When was the last time you had sex, eh?"

Hermione felt her eyes widen as she digested what her portrait had done. She opened her mouth but nothing came out save a small squeak. She could feel a sudden pounding in her head and heard a sudden rush of what sounded like the wind between her ears before she finally snapped. 

What sounded like a roar broke out from between her lips as she charged towards her portrait. The woman therein gave a yelp and scurried away out of her frame. Undeterred by the portrait-being's absence, Hermione flicked her wand viciously; the frame lifted off the wall with a heavy jerk. A sharp jab with her wand and the frame rose high up in the air and spun quickly and crazily in wide, dizzying circles for twenty seconds before it flipped face down and landed on the floor with a great crash.

Only then did Hermione lower her wand, took in several deep breaths before she left to face down Professor Adrian Pucey.

The man she had slowly become so very fond of ever since they'd become friends; the man who was the perfect match for her, in her opinion. They shared so many things in common, were intellectually well-matched and they liked each other. It didn't hurt that Adrian Pucey was easy on the eyes: dark brown hair, a face that was pleasantly good-looking as opposed to being dramatically handsome, a mobile mouth that smiled easily when he was amused, and a tall, lean frame that Hermione had always thought was graceful.

And the man who unfortunately treated her as some sexless object whose company he enjoyed in a placid, wholly uninteresting, _friends-only_ way.

After all, he'd turned down her invitation to go to the Hogwarts' Governors' Ball with her.

*

The knock came a little bit later than Adrian had expected; he had already finished marking half of the essays on his table. The knock was a sharp, impatient rat-tat-tat that spoke volumes of the other person's agitation. He walked towards the door and opened it.

On its other side stood Hermione Granger with half her hair hanging down her left shoulder and her face flushed.

She was breathing heavily, as if she had just run all the way from her rooms to his.

Or as if she had just gotten out of bed after a rousing bout of sex, came the unbidden thought, no doubt thanks to his earlier conversation with Granger's portrait and her many obvious charms.

Involuntarily, Adrian's eyes veered towards Granger's chest, only to be met by a neat row of buttons marching up a shapeless, black robe all the way up to her neck. 

"Pucey," she said, "I need to talk to you about -"

"You gave your word," he cut in as he leaned against the doorframe.

She frowned. "I beg your pardon? The portrait-being -"

He shook his finger. "Tsk, tsk, Professor Granger. We both know what she said." He glanced at her tellingly.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "I'd rather conduct this conversation in private, if you don't mind."

He moved away from the door and waved her in. 

"I asked you - as a friend, I might add - to accompany me to that dratted ball last week." She turned accusing eyes upon him as she stood in the middle of his study. "You turned me down. You said, and I quote: No thanks, Granger. Nothing short of a horde of stampeding wild Thestrals will drag me to that excuse for a ball ever again." She finished with a loud huff and her finger poking at his chest. 

He gingerly removed her hand. Hermione had bony fingers that were surprisingly quite strong and it had hurt where she poked him. "Quote me correctly if quote me you must. I said: Nothing short of a horde of stampeding wild Thestrals will drag me to that excuse for a ball where Mrs. Egberta Fucks of the many hands will be continuously pinching my arse. And then I said, make it worth my while." He stared at her, hoping she would understand the implication.

"Its pronounced _fooks_ ," she corrected him automatically.  "And if you didn't flirt with her so excessively at last year's event -"

"I did not," he objected indignantly.

"Yes, you did. Wait, I don't care." She waved her hands at him, causing him to move a step back. He wanted to keep his nose intact, and Granger's arms flailing about excitedly as she emphasised her words was always a dangerous thing. "Look, you release me from that stupid promise that horrible hussy made to you and you won't even have to go near the ball next week. I'll ask Neville if he'll accompany me instead." She smiled triumphantly. "What say you?"

"No." 

She frowned, surprise written all over her face. "What do you mean, _no_?"

"Which part of _no_ don't you understand?" He raised his eyebrows, causing her to blush. _Interesting_. "No, you'll be going with me and I expect payment in full, exactly as promised."

Hermione blushed even more. "Why you - you can't be serious?" she spluttered.

"Why not?" he asked, trying not to laugh as her eyes widened and her face turned even redder.

"Well - well, for one, we're not - you know, I mean ..." she trailed off, for once looking unsure.

Adrian frowned. "I don't, actually. Enlighten me, Granger."

She frowned as well and advanced on him again; he reared back. An upset Granger was not someone to mess with; he remembered stories from the other Slytherins about how she had once slapped Draco Malfoy in their third year. "Pucey," she bit out, looking irritated.

"Help me out here, Granger, I don't read minds." Against his will and sense of self-preservation, he leaned closer to her. He couldn't resist provoking her, just a little bit. She was turning the most becoming shade of red. Who knew she would be so flustered by that little promise?  He whispered, "Not unless you want me to try Legilimency on you."

She drew back quickly. "No, of course not." She tried again. "Pucey ... Adrian," she said in placating tones, "I really don't think my portrait had the right to make promises on my behalf. We both know what she's like. Do you remember the last time she spoke with you?" She nodded her head at him knowingly. "You ended up on a blind date with the Head Mistress."

Adrian winced at that memory. The horror of walking into The Three Broomsticks and then seeing McGonagall sitting at the table in the corner, with a yellow rose pinned to her lapel and the portrait's words: _An independent and intelligent witch, Adrian Pucey, that's what you need. She'll be wearing a yellow rose and she'll waiting for you at the Three Broomsticks._ The portrait had thrown him a wink, and being the fool that he was, he had thought she'd meant to set him up with Granger. He had always had a thing for intelligent women. Not that McGonagall didn't possess any of those traits - he was sure someone  more mature than him would find her attractive, Aberforth Dumbledore for one - but Merlin, the woman was old enough to be his mother. Hell, older than his mother; he could have sworn he heard his dear old pater say McGonagall had taught him when he was at Hogwarts too!

He scowled. Really, Granger ought to know by now he was interested in her. He had thought _she_ might be interested in him - after all, she did ask him to the ball. And he was going to agree - after a fashion - but her portrait had hastened things along and not at all to his detriment.

He noticed Granger was wringing her hands. "Look, I can't believe you agreed with what she said, but I won't"- she gulped loudly - "I won't sleep with you just so you can accompany me to the dratted ball," she suddenly blurted out.

"What?" he asked, shocked. Did the portrait somehow guess that he was interested in Granger? Was he that obvious? But -

"If you want to accompany me to the ball, just come," Hermione said, interrupting his thoughts. She rushed on, saying, "I refuse to be bound by what that - that awful representation of me promised. If you don't want to come, I'll ask Neville." She nodded her head emphatically and made to move towards the door.

"Wait," he called out. "Wait, I said, wait, Granger." He grabbed her hand and pulled her to a stop. "She promised a kiss from you."

"What?" Hermione sounded confused.

"Your portrait; she promised a kiss from you if I go to the ball with you. That's all."

"That's all?" She sounded surprised.

He nodded. "She overheard our conversation; I said I'd go if you made it worthwhile." He swallowed loudly. "She asked what I considered worthwhile." There, let her think what she will of that, he thought.

Hermione looked confused. "My kissing you would make it worthwhile?" She shook her head. "And she didn't say that I would" - she blushed - "sleep with you? I don't understand." She looked at him inquiringly. "Wait, she promised you that - oh. Oh. I _see_." There was a hint of wonder in her tone and her eyes seemed to light up with sudden comprehension. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?" Her eyes searched his.

He could feel a blush starting to creep up his neck and his cheeks. He cleared his throat, intending to confess that it was he who proposed the kiss as payment and that the portrait had promised to ensure he got one. But knowing Hermione - and from the way she was blushing and staring at him - she  had already guessed that. "Hermione - " he started to say, wanting to state his intentions clearly this time.

But he never got to finish as she suddenly leaned up and brushed a small kiss across his lips.

"Will that suffice?" she asked quietly as she leaned back, but with what looked to be a wicked glint in her eye.

He pretended to ponder her question. "Maybe," he replied, as he reached for her hand. "I think your portrait promised a good, long, wet kiss as payment." He threw her an arch look as she blushed again. He wondered idly how low that blush spread: Down to her neck? Or further to down her chest? May be someday soon he'll be able to find out.

She surprised him by squeezing his hand and answered pertly, "I think you'll have to take me to the ball first before you can expect payment of any sort, Professor Pucey."

He grinned. "Hermione, I'd like to see how this" - he gestured with his free hand towards them - "how _we_ , work out. I mean, I _like_ you. I want more out of our friendship." He searched her face; sensing encouragement from the shy smile on her lips, he continued, "And I think, that perhaps, you may grow to like me in that way too."

"I have a confession too," she said quietly.

"Oh?" He cocked his head to the side, waiting.

She bit her lip and looked rather embarrassed. "I was hoping that you'd actually realise there was more to me than books and work when I showed you my portrait."

 _Oh._ He grinned then. "How very Slytherin of you, Granger. But very inspired, I must say." He leaned down and stole a quick kiss from her. "I think we need to discuss what your portrait told _you_ that you needed to do to get me to that ball; something about you sleeping with me?" He smirked. "Have I ever mentioned this theory I have about how platonic relationships can sometimes change? For the better, I might add."

She smiled. "I have some theories of my own regarding that too."

 

  _Finis_


End file.
